RuKsaK

I walked into the shower cubicle and saw it. An knotted fiend, hugging its own stench in a curl on the low shelf. Faultless and brown, almost a fossil - not from a drunk arse. My face paled accordingly and I said in a ventriloquist’s whisper:
‘What fucking dirty bastard does this?’

There were cubicles for dumping just two metres away, but the owner of this sleeping shit decided it should rest in the shower. I got my mop, Marigolds, mumbling like an old man about a bus fare, and cleaned the fucker up.

I was the Primose Valley Holiday Camp toilet cleaner – that turd, like all of them, hadn’t fallen out of no Primose Valley.

Three times a week I rode a bicycle and trailer stuffed with detergents, cloths and brushes. My flatmate, Morgan le Wankeur, took the other three days in the week. There were four public toilets and two shower blocks to clean, twice each day. I’ve never seen shit in so many incongruous places. Sometimes contorted into a urinal, once requesting a shoot out, stood in the centre of the floor – a backlit renegade, often lipping into a sink. I hated people.
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Between toilets I’d steal hours from my stingy boss by reading. I read more books at this time than any other in my life. My economy was two books for every misplaced shit (a bit like Blog Explosion). Some of them slipped through my system like a 3am kebab. Others lingered and gave me gut whack. However, one of them gave me a lifetime of colon cancer; Crime and Punishment. Confronting the craps of the human race and reading this at the same time was pure Molotov. By the time the axe was slicing into the old dear I was cheering Raskolnikov:
‘Go on, go on! Get the cow’s jewels. She deserves it – she’s the type to drop a dump on a shower shelf.’
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Some books you finish, you put it down and a quake swells through you – a shift in structure occurs, you’re not going to be the same again. It’s happened to me around seven times so far – I’ll not name them all.

If it hasn’t happened to you – you haven’t read the right books or your soul gets off at the stop after Barbara Cartland.
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I walked from Crime and Punishment with a new maliciousness, a liking for revenge anywhere I can find it, a sneer for people I don’t know, but knowing they’ll shit where they like given the chance. Belief it wouldn’t hurt to chop them up sometimes.

Nietzsche read it. Hitler read Nietzsche. It all started in the building you see below.

Despite, or because of this company, I sometimes wish I’d never read it. It’s made me an arse. I told The Flea he reminds me of Gordon Comstock and I shouldn’t have. I swallowed laughter when The Dog drank my dangly phlegm. There are other terrible matters I’ll never tell you of. Indiana Jones would have trouble finding my benevolence on a good day.
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I thank Fyodor Dostoyevsky and anonymous shits for teaching me true intolerance.

I lied again – I don’t wish for anything.

This is the house where Raskolnikov was built

Tuesday, January 18, 2005

The books the shit made me do